Confidential Sources by Barbara Fischkin

Author:Barbara Fischkin
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780440336198
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2006-10-31T05:00:00+00:00

“Tai Tam Park,” Danny announced to the driver.

Up high and green, it was a secluded country getaway with leafy paths and hidden expanses of woods, just minutes from the crowded, throbbing cacophony of the harbor and its environs. There, Danny could run without waiting for the traffic to pass. It was the main island’s most unlikely locale.

But, like all places here, you could always get a taxi out.

An hour later, the three of us walked as if we shared one secret, Danny positioning himself in the middle, his hands reaching for ours, taking them, then dropping them so that he could feel freedom, too. We spotted the “double bus” that rode to the Peak Tram, ran to it, shot up that small mountain as if we were in a rocket.

“Slow down,” I said. But nobody heard.

Back down the peak and in and out of another taxi, we hopped onto the Star Ferry, a double-decker green and white boat that over the years had transported millions from one side of Hong Kong to the other. One of the mates offered Danny a bag of “crisps,” cheese snacks that reminded me of Cheez Doodles, which we never saw here even though Ah Yick made a small fortune selling processed American food.

Between Mexico and Hong Kong, Danny was growing up without Cheez Doodles. He inhaled the imitations, nevertheless.

We rode across to Kowloon Side and Tsim Sha Tsui for the inevitable stop at Toys “R” Us and back, then into Wan Chai and a subway ride that ended at—where else—another taxi stand.

“Let’s not get out,” I said when we passed the beach at Repulse Bay. Hong Kong’s shoreline, heavily polluted, was the only thing here that made me miss Long Island. Outvoted, I watched as Danny, his clothes on, ran in, jumped at the waves, and came out the same color as he had gone in, convincing me that we were truly blessed.

We took another taxi to Ocean Park, a real amusement park in a city that was one itself. There, we rode the cable cars as many times as we could until the park closed.

“It’s a Mulvaney tradition,” father noted to son. “Last to leave the party.”

“Yep,” the kid agreed, yawning—finally—as we walked through the revolving door of The Manhattan.

But he brightened when he saw the doorman.

“Hello, Pungyow!” Danny called out, mixing Cantonese and English. That, I’d heard from other foreign correspondents, was called code-switching. Kids learning more than one language at once sometimes spoke two of them in one sentence. Supposedly it was fine. All the languages would ultimately come together.

“Hiya, pal!” Danny said in English.

The thin-lipped, bespectacled man at the front desk smiled weakly, as if it was a chore. He was not one of the usual pungyows, the doting, rotund doormen who worked in shifts—but rather their boss, Mr. Henry Yip, Estate Manager of the Manhattan Luxury Residence. A man who made Deng Xiaoping look like a softie.

“Working late, Mr. Yip?” I inquired.

He growled in Cantonese and patted Danny on the head.

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